


Good Medicine

by hjbender



Category: Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991)
Genre: Drama, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-06
Updated: 2011-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-21 02:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjbender/pseuds/hjbender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting shot through the hand was only the beginning; now Will Scarlet must wrestle with his painful past and learn to coexist with Robin of Locksley, the bane of his existence... and the brother he refuses to acknowledge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Where there is anger, there is always pain underneath._  
Eckhart Tolle

It happened so quickly. He hardly felt a thing.

He had raised the knife over his shoulder, then Wulf gave a shout of warning and Robin turned. There was a blur, a rush of wind, and suddenly the blade was tumbling from Will Scarlet’s frozen hand. The pressure came first, tremendous and crushing, as if his hand were being squeezed in a vise. Then came the pain, blinding, burning, dizzying—as powerful as the stings of a thousand wasps or the blow of a sledge hammer. Will clutched the wrist of his injured hand and tried not to be sickened by what he was seeing: one of Locksley’s arrows protruding from his palm, through glove and skin and flesh and sinew, right between his second and third fingers.

He couldn’t summon the breath to scream. His shock was too profound.

Trembling, his face drained of color, Will lifted his frightened, bewildered gaze to Robin, who was staring at his would-be attacker with an expression not too unlike his own. Perhaps he was amazed by the young outlaw’s silence, for any normal man would be howling on the ground.

With his pulse throbbing around the wood piercing his hand, Will was overcome with an urgent, panicky need to remove the arrow immediately. He turned and ran, stumbling on weak legs, out of the clearing and into the thick trees of Sherwood Forest.

Robin lowered his bow and stared after him, marveling at the rancor that must have driven Will to finally lash out at him. He had taken the young outlaw to be nothing more than a rude, unsociable malcontent with nothing more dangerous than a sharp tongue and an accusing finger. Today had proven otherwise.

There must be a deep well of hatred lurking somewhere within Will Scarlet, Robin pondered. Well, perhaps the cocky rascal would learn to keep a better seal on it after today.

* * *

Will blundered through the brush, clutching his hand and gritting out curses under his breath. His cheeks were wet with tears, shed from the pain of being wounded in both body and pride. He tumbled to the ground at the base of a large elm and held his impaled hand for a few moments, trying to steady his breathing and think of a way to safely remove the arrow. Had it gone through bone? How badly would it bleed if he took it out? Should he leave it in? Were his fingers paralyzed? Would there be a hole through his hand for the rest of his life? What if pieces of his glove had gone through? What if the wound became infected and he had to have the whole thing amputated? He was right-handed—he couldn’t afford to lose it!

Grimacing, he reached out and touched the arrow, seeing how firmly it was embedded. It hardly moved, and the pain of nudging it made his head swim. He sank back against the tree and tried to fight the uncontrollable urge to sob, kicking at a root angrily. He should never have drawn arms on that conceited, warmongering swine! He should have known it would only lead to trouble. And Wulf, that ignorant little whelp! If he hadn’t cried out, there would have been a dagger sticking out of the tree beside Locksley’s head and Will wouldn’t be sitting here with a bloody arrow through his hand. Had Wulf actually believed that one of the poorest fighters in Sherwood thought he could slay the great and wondrous Robin Hood with a knife between the shoulders? Will Scarlet readily admitted to being a thieving, cheating, unscrupulous scoundrel, but he was no murderer. He relied on his cunning to get him out of trouble, not his strength. Besides, if he’d had it in his mind to kill Locksley, he wouldn’t have done it while the man’s back was turned—he wasn’t as cowardly as that, regardless of the accusations against him.

Swallowing his tears, Will studied the arrow. The point was flush with the shaft. He could remove it without having to break it. One good pull, maybe two, and it would be out . . .

The sound of footsteps rustling through the leaves alerted Will to an intruder, but he had no time to draw his other knife; Azeem, Locksley’s painted companion, appeared around the tree and stopped, staring down at the young outlaw dispassionately, his hand resting on the hilt of his broad, intimidating scimitar.

It was perfectly clear: the Moor had been sent to finish him off.

Uttering a weak yelp, Will scrambled backward over the uneven ground, falling clumsily between two large roots and floundering there. The man took a step closer.

Squirming and helplessly trapped, Will raised his uninjured arm in supplication. “Don’t kill me, please,” he begged. “I never intended to harm him—I was only trying to frighten him, I swear!”

“I know.”

Will’s eyes widened, suddenly bewildered. “You do? How?”

Azeem lowered himself onto his haunches. “Because the arrow is through your hand, not your heart. If the Christian truly believed you were a serious threat, you would already be dead.” His voice softened. “Here, let me have a look.”

Hesitantly, Will sat up and offered his wounded hand to the man, who studied it pensively for a few moments. Then he reached to his belt and pulled out a large, fearsome-looking knife. Will immediately snatched his hand away.

“Do you not want me to remove the arrow?” Azeem asked.

“I can do that on my own!”

“It would be less painful if I helped, and I have medicine to keep the infection away.”

Will considered his options with a dubious frown. The Moor sounded sincere enough, even if he was a foreign savage. The promise of medicine was attractive, too. Surely it would be advantageous to let a more experienced person deal with a problem of this nature. At the very least, Will would be able to lay back, close his eyes, and not have to see what the inner workings of his hand looked like. He feared the sight of his own bone and tissue would turn his stomach inside out.

“All right,” he agreed reluctantly. “What do I have to do?”

Azeem gently took Will’s hand and laid it lengthwise on a broad, exposed tree root. “Sit still and brace yourself.”

Will shut his eyes tightly and looked away.

With careful precision, Azeem neatly sawed through the arrow’s shaft with his knife, leaving a clean cut and at least six inches that would not have to pass through flesh again. Holding Will by the wrist, the man gently began to ease the arrow out.

“ _God_!” Will choked, digging his heels into the dirt and writhing in pain.

“Be still!” Azeem commanded.

“Hurry up and I’ll be as still as you li— _ahh_!”

With one final tug, the arrow came free. Azeem tossed it to the ground and peeled off Will’s glove, pulling the injured hand closer to his face. He picked up his knife and inserted the tip into the bleeding puncture, nudging aside mangled flesh and ragged skin as if searching for something.

Will was in supreme agony.

“Ah, shit! Christ! Fucking _hell_!” he wailed. “What in God’s name are you _doing_ , man!”

Azeem ignored the sobbing youth and continued to examine the wound for pieces of glove—none on that side. He turned Will’s hand over. Ah, here was a fiber or two. Working quickly, the Moor removed tiny shreds of wool and put his dagger away.

“We must get to water,” he said flatly.

“Th-there’s a stream nearby,” Will said unsteadily. His whole body was trembling and his face was a waxy, deathly pallor.

“Come,” said Azeem, pulling the outlaw to his feet. “Show me where it is.”

* * *

On the rocky bank of a cold, shallow brook, Will bit his lip and kept his hand submerged in the crystal-clear water. Thin ribbons of blood flowed downstream, but the bleeding was gradually beginning to slacken. Thank God. Will felt as if he’d bled half of his body weight and cried out the rest.

Not too far away, Azeem sat by a small fire and tended the concoction he was brewing in a battered steel pot. He picked up another strip of bark and added it to the boiling water, then stirred the coals to make the fire hotter.

“Are you almost done over there?” Will asked over his shoulder.

“Almost,” the Moor answered crisply, picking up his mortar and pestle and whisking the sticky paste he had made. “You can come dry your hand now. Do not use cloth! Let the fire dry it.”

With the tempered obedience of a well-behaved child, Will sat himself down by the fire held his hand over the warm flames.

“You were lucky,” said Azeem at length, mixing the paste. “The arrow did not pierce bone or tendon. It will take time to heal, but you will have the full use of your hand again.”

Will heaved a tremendous sigh of relief. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in my life.”

“I do not doubt it. Here, give me your hand.”

Will held out his hand and allowed Azeem to coat his wound with the thick, gelatinous ointment from the mortar. Then he picked up a long strip of linen he had cut from his own robes and began binding it expertly, as if he were accustomed to wrapping injuries such as these.

“Are you a medicine man?” Will asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

“No. But I once knew one,” said Azeem. “He was a great teacher in my country. I was schooled by him when I was a young man.”

“Did he teach you to do this?”

“No. He taught me to make the medicine. I learned to bind wounds when the Christians came.”

Will fell silent and allowed the Moor to finish his work. When the bandage was tied off, he passed a grateful smile to Azeem. “Thank you,” he said. “You’re . . .” _The first person who has ever really cared for me since my mother died._ “. . . very kind.”

Azeem returned the smile. “Kindness comes naturally. It takes more effort to be a man’s enemy than to be his friend.”

Bowing his head sheepishly, Will stared down at his bandages. “I would like to believe you,” he murmured, “but there is no love in my heart for Robin of Locksley, and there is no love in his heart for me.”

“People do change, my young friend.”

“ _He_ hasn’t,” Will muttered.

Across the fire, Azeem raised an eyebrow. “You knew him before?”

Will glanced up nervously. “No! I mean, ah . . . I knew, knew _of_ him, of course, son of a wealthy lord. Everyone knew. He was, ah, that is, I heard rumors of him being a spoiled little tyrant, and, ah . . . and they were absolutely right. Imagine that!”

Azeem stared. Will hunched his shoulders and looked the other way. He couldn’t help it—he was the worst liar who ever lived. His mother had whipped him for lying when he was a boy, and he hadn’t been able to keep the stammer out of his voice ever since. Lord! who had ever heard of an honest thief?

“I don’t want his friendship, anyway,” Will added feebly. “Not after today. He’s arrogant and vain and he thinks everything is _so simple_. He has no idea. John and Bull and Much, we’ve all been outlaws for the past two years. Then Locksley shows up and calls himself one of us, and the next day he’s taken over and everyone is bowing to him as if he were God’s gift to mankind. He starts a war that none of us wants to fight, he brings misery down on an innocent village, and still they follow him like sheep!”

“Are you envious of him?” asked Azeem levelly.

“No. I’m furious.”

“Why?”

“Because he—” Will stopped himself before the truth could spill from his lips. “B-because, ah . . .”

“There _is_ corruption in this kingdom, is there not?”

“Yes, but it’s not his job to—”

“Do you enjoy living as a thief?”

“No, but I can’t help—”

“Would you not like to see an end to your poverty and suffering?”

“Of course!”

“So does Robin,” said the Moor. “He fights for you. He wants a better life for you and your people.”

“Really? Or does he just want revenge for our dead fath—” Will froze, unable to breathe. Unable to believe what he had just done.

Azeem’s eyes widened a little, but he remained otherwise motionless. “You are brothers,” he said after a long silence.

Will lowered his head and shielded his eyes from view with his uninjured hand. He didn’t respond.

“How does he not know of you?” Azeem asked incredulously. “Do you share the same mother?”

“No,” Will muttered, massaging his forehead. “My mother was a commoner. His mother was a noblewoman.”

“So your father was unfaithful?”

“In Robin’s eyes, yes. But his mother had already been dead a year when Thomas Locksley fell in love with my mother, and Robin would not tolerate their union. Lord Locksley called off his marriage to my mother, even though I was already growing in her belly, and he sent her away . . . all so that his selfish brat of a son would love him again.” Will clenched his left hand tightly, his knuckles turning white. “I was born a bastard because of him. My mother was branded a whore and a temptress. My whole life was ruined, all because of Robin of Locksley. Don’t you dare tell me that I haven’t every God-given right to hate him for what he’s done to me!”

“I would never tell a man what he should feel,” Azeem said calmly. “I am sorry that you have endured such misfortune, my friend.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

Azeem let his eye fall upon the pot. “It is finished. Here, give me that vessel.”

Stirring himself out of his angry reverie, Will picked up the wooden cup beside him and held it out. The Moor filled it with the clear, steaming liquid.

“What is this?” Will asked, gently blowing over the rim to cool it. “What does it do?”

“It is a tea made from the bark of the willow tree. It will taste quite bad, I am afraid, but it will help numb the pain a little.”

Will took an tentative sip and grimaced. “Ugh!”

“Drink two or three cups a day, and no more. You will feel better soon.”

“I’ll feel better later, when I don’t have to drink this bilge. Yech.”

Azeem chuckled.

Will fell quiet and wrapped both hands around his cup, staring into the fire moodily. The occasional swallows he took evoked the same humorous expression of disgust from him. Azeem studied the outlaw wordlessly, noticing how young and small he appeared now, sitting cross-legged like a child, his posture hunched and his face still capable of bearing the full range of his emotions. He had not yet learned to conceal them like a man. He would, perhaps, in a few more years. Azeem wondered how much older the Christian was than his unknown half-brother.

“You must tell him,” he said after a while. “However painful it will be, he must be told.”

“He would kill me,” Will muttered. “At the very least he’d beat me within an inch of my life. Maybe he’d put a hole through my _other_ hand so I’d have a matching pair.”

“You do not know that. Perhaps he would be happy to embrace you as his brother.”

“After today, I doubt it. He will never trust me again . . . Not that I ever wanted his trust to begin with.”

Azeem folded his arms over his chest. “What _do_ you want, Will Scarlet?”

When Will raised his head, his eyes were filled with hatred—and also sorrow. “Revenge,” he muttered.

“Revenge for what?”

Will blinked and turned his head so that the Moor would not see the tears glistening in his eyes. “Everything.”

They spoke no more after that, but sat in each other’s company until the fire was dying and the sun was sinking low in the cloudy sky. Azeem rinsed his wares in the stream while Will doused the coals with water, and together they walked back to the Sherwood camp in silence.

* * *

There was a different mood in the air than when they had left. The homeless villagers were getting settled, campfires burning and quick shelters being constructed out of branches and crude thatch. Freshly-caught rabbits and fish were roasting on spits over some of the fires, tended by wives or older children. The little ones played nearby, laughing and squealing, their misery temporarily forgotten. Most of the men, Merry or otherwise, seemed to be preoccupied with building; Will noticed John Little walk by, carrying a huge log on his broad shoulder as easily as if it were a twig. Bull and Much were stripping vines and green saplings to braid into rope. Arthur and Dave busily chopped down young trees to broaden the clearing. Three or four villagers would then move in and carry the fallen trees to the growing stack of timber. There was no crying, no wailing, no arguing. The families who had arrived at the camp in tears were now optimistic and hopeful, working together with the outlaws of Sherwood to rebuild what they had lost.

For a brief moment, Will’s heart swelled with pride for his fellow countrymen. Never was there a people more resilient to destruction than the English. For the first time in days, a smile blossomed on his face.

Then he caught sight of Locksley, helping a young family tie together the supports of their rustic lean-to, and his smiled abruptly faded. Of course. Saint Robin at work, Will thought sourly. If only they knew the _real_ Locksley, the cruel, greedy, swaggering tyrant that he kept hidden beneath his mild—

“I must make my prayers now,” said Azeem, stepping away. He was halted by a hand grasping his sleeve, and he turned to see Will gazing at him tensely.

“Please, don’t tell him,” he said softly.

Azeem placed a soothing hand on the young man’s shoulder. “You have my vow, Will Scarlet, for that is no man’s task but yours.” He gave a reassuring smile before he walked away, his blue robes standing out among the brown and beige of the bustling villagers like an opal.

Will sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He should probably work on setting himself up for the night. It was going to be a few days before any of his fellow outlaws would want to look at him, much less accept him back into their circle. Anyone who drew arms on Saint Robin obviously wasn’t to be trusted. Will scoffed. He had no problem with being on his own. He was more than capable of taking care of himself. It wasn’t as if John was all that fond of him anyway. Bugger the whole lot of them—Will Scarlet didn’t need anybody.

The young outlaw stalked off into the trees, but he didn’t go unnoticed; Robin was watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he quickly finished roping the shelter together as Azeem approached.

“How is he?” Robin asked concernedly.

Azeem’s brow rose slightly. It was rare that the Christian surprised him, and he certainly wasn’t expecting such a question at this time. “His hand will be fine. His spirit, however, is another matter.”

“Did you learn anything from him?”

“Only that he is young and full of anger.”

“Even a blind man could see that, Azeem. What angers him?”

“I cannot say.”

Robin rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air. “Fantastic help you are. I should have just gone to him myself and spared you the trouble.”

“If you are finished whining, Christian, I have my rituals to attend.”

“Fine, fine,” Robin sighed, kneading the bridge of his nose. “Go, have a nice prayer.”

The Moor strode past Robin, who put his hands on his hips and spent several moments staring at Sherwood’s new settlement, pondering the enigma that was Will Scarlet. Then John called to him from across the clearing, and all other thoughts were pushed aside as Robin focused his mind on more important matters, such as helping all these displaced families establish new homes. He would worry about surly young outlaws later. Right now, these people needed him.

* * *

Will was accustomed to living on the edge of society—of any society, be it village life or the ragtag band of thieves he’d taken up with ever since his mother had died. Most of them were from Laxton or Annesley or one of the neighboring parishes. Will himself hailed from Mansfield, on the west side of Sherwood. He had never been able to fit in anywhere; he was too defensive, too mistrustful, too resentful of authority. And because of his solitary nature, he was often misjudged as being dangerous and sneaky, a lone wolf circling the edges of a flock. His cleverness didn’t alleviate any of the nervousness folk felt around him, nor did his waistcoat, upon which were embroidered two red wolves snarling at each other. Added to the knives he carried on his belt and his studded warrior’s trousers, Will Scarlet looked about as friendly as a two-headed snake.

He added more kindling to his tiny fire, blowing on the flames to help them spread. He could hear faint voices from the camp, and he could almost see the orange glow from the fires dancing on the trunks of the black trees. But for the most part, it was cold and dark where he squatting, feeding his only source of warmth and trying not to think about his act of blind, stupid rage that had landed him out on the fringe yet again.

Will rubbed his hands together, mindful of his bandage. His right hand ached like hell and his fingers were as stiff as wood, but it certainly wasn’t the agony he’d been expecting. Azeem was a good man to help him, he thought. Wise, kind, reassuring, gentle . . . Why he chose to keep his company with a prick like Locksley was a complete mystery to Will.

The outlaw’s stomach grumbled emptily and he winced. Yet another day with nothing but half a loaf of bread and a few old pieces of venison to fill him. He knew there was food in the camp, but he couldn’t bring himself to steal from those just as desperate as he—perhaps he truly _was_ an honest thief. In any case, Will was accustomed to doing without; whenever a bounty was brought in, he was often the last to be served. Men with families got the first pick, then the old, crippled and sick took their share. If there was anything left after that, it was divided up among the bachelors, who were often too large in number to afford any one of them a decent meal. Split a loaf of bread six ways and it’s barely more than a mouthful. There were other options, of course: Will was an accomplished burglar and he’d raided many a rich man’s pantry in the dead of night, but right now he simply didn’t have the energy to creep into the nearest town just to appease his appetite. Rest and healing was more important.

With his fire now crackling strongly, Will leaned back against a mossy old stump and tucked his hands into his sleeves to keep them warm. He sighed tiredly, his breath forming a mist in the cold air. Perhaps tomorrow he would go to Rufford Abbey and filch some eggs from the chicken coop, then stop by the village of Clipstone to see Eyra Tiller. Maybe she will have overcome her shyness by now and wouldn’t run from Will’s offerings of wildflowers, like she had last week. He smiled to himself and closed his eyes.

He had almost fallen asleep when a twig snapped, provoking an automatic response: his eyes flew open and he went for the dagger tucked under his belt, drawing it out and holding it before him defensively.

In the shadows beyond the fire stood Robin of Locksley, holding a small cloth sack.

Will immediately let his dagger drop to the ground and held his hands up in surrender. The look on his face was pure poison. “Don’t shoot,” he glowered, “I’m unarmed.”

For a moment Robin felt like smiling at the pun, but judging from the resentful curl on Will’s lip, the lad clearly wasn’t trying to be humorous.

“I didn’t come here to quarrel,” said Robin, stepping over and crouching down beside Will, who made a point of moving away from his unwanted guest. He crossed his arms over his chest and purposely looked the other way.

Robin began haltingly, “I thought you might . . . I have some . . . Well, regardless of what happened today, I brought . . .” He trailed off, gazing at Will’s turned head and unfriendly posture, and gave up. He set the sack on the ground and rose to his feet.

“I don’t need your charity,” Will said icily.

“And I don’t need your permission,” Robin retorted. “Whenever you’re finished feeling sorry for yourself, there’s a place for you at our table.”

“Not under it? My my, I shall be the envy of all the other dogs.”

Robin clenched his fists and closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and praying to God for patience. When his rage had passed, he pointed himself toward camp and strode away, leaving Will to have the last word, just like the rotten little brat wanted.

After waiting a few minutes to make certain Locksley had gone, Will picked up the sack and opened it hurriedly. In it he found a bread roll, two small roasted fish, and even a few plump wild cherries.

For a few moments he was too stunned to believe what he was seeing. When his mind finally succeeded in convincing his eyes that they weren’t deceived, he tore into his gifts with gusto, savoring the smoky flavor of the fish and the tart juiciness of the cherries. What a feast! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a meal. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps Locksley might have poisoned the fish, but Will had already eaten a lethal helping by this point. He reckoned that if he were going to die, at least he’d die on a full stomach.

The food wasn’t poisoned, of course, and all too soon there was nothing left but crumbs and pits. His hunger sated, Will stretched himself out by the fire and sighed contentedly. Maybe he ought to try throwing knives at Locksley more often. The man plainly had no concept of how to treat his enemies—just look at his Moorish companion, for God’s sake!—and he seemed to genuinely believe that loyalty could be bought with a sack of food.

Well, thought Will stubbornly, it was going to take more than a few vittles to atone for all of the hurt that had been inflicted upon him, physical or otherwise. In fact, he was certain there was no way, in this life or the one after, that such injustices could be rectified, let alone forgiven. Let alone _forgotten_.

As he continued to mull over his thoughts, an irresistible sleepiness soon overtook him and his eyes fluttered closed. In a matter of moments Will was fast asleep, his little fire glowing like a tiny spark amidst the towering, silent darkness of Sherwood Forest.


	2. Chapter 2

Rain. It was the worst part about living in a forest; the spongy, muddy earth, the constant struggle to keep wood dry for the fire, the dampness that seeped into one’s clothing, the dreary light, the inevitable venture out into the downpour to hunt for game or watch the road for travelers. This was the third straight day of rain, and Will Scarlet was convinced that he was going to start sprouting mushrooms if he didn’t dry out soon.

Aggravated, cold, and soaked to the bone, he ducked under the low, open shelter and shook the water from his hair.

“‘Ey, watch it, Scarlet!” squawked Bull, cringing away from the droplets. “I just got meself dry!”

“If you’re dry, then I’m king of the fairies,” Will grunted, plopping down on one of the tree-stump chairs that sat by the fire and removing his sopping wet boots. He then peeled off his cowl and waistcoat, wrung them out, and hung them above the fire, where several articles of clothing were already drying.

“Where you been at, Will?” Much asked inquisitively. “We ain’t seen you round here lately.”

“Aye, we thought you’d taken off for good,” said George.

Will smiled sardonically as he unbuckled his belt. “It’ll take more than one little prick to get rid of me.”

“Little?” Bull echoed. “I wouldn’t call an arrow through the hand a little—”

“He’s talking about Robin,” George interrupted.

“Oh . . . Oh, ‘ey, that wasn’t very nice.”

Will held up his right hand, showing off his spectacular scab and the yellowish, fading bruise around it. “Neither was this.”

Effectively silenced, Bull turned away and went back to warming his hands while Will stripped down to his braies and hung up the rest of his clothes. The other outlaws were in similar states of undress, having already been out on patrol earlier that day. Now they were preoccupied with weapon-making; George was whittling arrow shafts, Much was sorting feathers for fletching, and Bull was attaching the vanes to the arrows. Will joined the others in mutual silence as they sat around the fire, listening to the rain pattering through the leaves of the trees above.

Will shivered as the flickering orange flames began to warm his cold, wet skin. This was much better than huddling over his own weak, smoldering campfire and trying to keep it from sizzling out of existence. Bloody weather. He wondered if Locksley was in camp or out “procuring donations” from the rich. He hoped for the latter. He’d managed to avoid running into Sherwood’s great leader for an entire week, and frankly, if he never saw Locksley for the rest of his life, it would be too soon. However, the recent rain had finally driven Will out of his leaky hut and back into camp, which had changed dramatically since his last visit: tree-huts, rope bridges, a goat pen, a stable, an infirmary, even a little shelter where the children could play, swings and everything. It looked like a real village, not some shoddy campsite for the dregs of society.

It almost looked like home, Will thought distantly, gazing at the altered landscape and the familiar faces around him. As unattached as he was to his thieving compatriots, he felt glad to see them again, even if they weren’t the smartest or best-looking blokes in the shire. They seemed to have forgotten about Will’s act of mutiny a fortnight ago, which was some relief; the last thing he needed right now was another reason to be shunned. He already had enough trouble fitting in with the others, who harbored a natural distrust of anyone who didn’t appreciate the fine art of breaking wind and belching ballads. But as leery as they were around Will, they were more than happy to make use of his clever ideas, such as the rope in the river and the wind chimes on the edges of the forest. Will had also come up with the counter-weight trap for catching fish, and he was the only man in Sherwood who knew how to sew a proper pocket. A good thief always had a need for pockets, and Will’s clothes had many.

As he pondered what to do with the rest of his day, approaching voices at the edge of camp interrupted his thoughts. His eyes narrowed as he recognized John’s full-bodied laughter and Locksley’s unusual accent. God, just what he needed—to be caught here, half-naked and soaking wet! No doubt Saint Robin would be stopping by the community fire to gloat and swagger on his latest success with his Merry Men. Will was disgusted at how eagerly the others had fallen into step behind their glorious, infallible leader. The fools would probably follow him over the edge of a cliff if he jumped.

Just as Will feared, the newly-arrived group began heading in his direction, guffawing and carrying on, their spirits sunny even in this abominable rain. He turned away and hunched down, hoping no one would notice him.

Bull and Much and George broke into smiles as Robin stepped under the shelter, streaming rainwater as if he’d just been hauled from a river. They helped him remove his wet, tangled quiver, then offered him a seat by the fire. He accepted it gratefully as the rest of his sopping comrades gathered about, jostling each other and talking loudly and flinging water all over Will, who by this point was ferociously annoyed.

“You should’ve seen the look on your face, Rob!” John laughed, his beard dripping. “When that stumpy little bugger stepped out of ‘is carriage and drew ‘is sword—ha!”

“Aye,” agreed Arthur, “he had to have been two heads shorter than you!”

Robin grinned broadly and continued to pull off his wet clothes. “And yet he fought with the courage of a man twice his size—for that, I respect him. We would all do well to remember that you should never judge a man by his height . . . especially if it puts him within biting distance of your balls.”

The men roared with laughter, and Will, despite his foul mood, snickered at the crude pun. Of course, Robin’s eyes just happened to find him at that exact moment.

“Will,” he said, sounding surprised.

“Locksley,” Will muttered, his smile abruptly vanishing.

A hush fell over the group as they realized Will Scarlet was in their midst. The last time they’d seen him and Robin in the same place was two weeks ago, and the outcome had not been pleasant. Strong words had been exchanged, arrows shot, injuries delivered. What would happen now?

“Where have you been?” asked Robin lightly. “We’ve missed you at camp these last few days.”

“Have you? Didn’t realize my charming, friendly nature was so greatly appreciated round here.”

Robin glanced over at Azeem as if to ask, _what should I do now_? The Moor, unwinding his dripping keffiyeh, gently shook his head. Robin sighed and, ignoring Will, asked John if he had some mead to warm their bones. John went to fetch his jug and slowly the men returned to their normal banter, pulling off their wet outer layers and hanging them up to dry.

Will crossed his arms over his bare chest and stared into the fire, determined to pretend as if no one else existed. If Locksley tried to speak to him again, he’d just take his clothes and _leave_. Being wet and cold was better than being in the presence of that ignorant, intolerable . . .

Robin stood and peeled off his undershirt, and a quiet lull once again settled among the men. Will looked up, wondering what had stolen everyone’s attention, and was greeted by the sight of Locksley’s naked torso stretching as he hung his shirt from the rafter above. But it wasn’t his body that had alarmed Will—it was the scars. Dozens of them. Long, white, upraised scars striping across Locksley’s chest and back and ribs and arms, some of them crisscrossing, as if he’d been whipped repeatedly for years on end. Who had beaten him, and for what reason?

Robin noticed the silence and the astounded eyes on him, and he sat down self-consciously.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Master Robin,” said George meekly, “but what . . . where did . . . ?”

“The Crusades,” Robin softly answered. “I was imprisoned in Jerusalem for five years. The only fighting I did was for my own life . . . and my sanity.”

Will forced himself to look away. Five _years_? God, the suffering he must have endured, getting beaten like that by his savage captors for five long years! It was inconceivable. Will would have sooner died than faced torture like that. How could anyone have the strength to survive for so long in those conditions? Surely he had been starved and chained, whipped for sport, tormented and humiliated. Gradually, Will began to wonder if five years of hell could compare with eighteen years of poverty, if it was possible that Robin of Locksley had changed from the spoiled little tyrant he had been so long ago . . .

Will glanced down at his right hand, at the healing puncture which now seemed as insignificant as a scratch. “Did it hurt?” he asked.

Robin gazed at him for a moment or two, then said, “Every waking moment.”

Before Will could speak again, John returned with the mead and soon the somber mood began to fade with the pleasant comfort of home-brewed hooch. Robin’s scars were forgotten and the joking and laughter began anew, but Will remained withdrawn and quiet, staring into the fire, lost in his thoughts.

* * *

As the day grew late and the rain began to dissipate, the men gathered their dry clothes and one by one went their separate ways. Will was reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire, but neither did he want to stay—the longer he lingered, the more difficult it would be to pull himself away.

As he was getting dressed, he heard Robin remark, “That’s an interesting waistcoat you have, Will.”

Wonderful. Another attempt at conversation.

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean,” Will retorted.

“That’s not what I meant. I was . . . admiring the craftsmanship.”

“Thanks, my mother made—” Will balked. He’d said too much. Again.

Robin’s face brightened. “Your mother made that? It’s beautiful. You must be very proud.”

“Not anymore. She’s dead.”

Robin paused awkwardly. “I’m sorry. Did she . . . What was her trade?”

Honestly, didn’t this fool know when to _shut up_? “Textiles,” Will muttered, fastening his belt. “Weaving. Sewing. Spinning.”

“Ah. And did she teach you anything?”

Will shot a glare toward Robin. “Why do you ask?”

Robin shrugged, feigning ignorance. “You seem to be the best-dressed outlaw in Sherwood. Either you’re an excellent thief or a master of the thread.”

“I’m both,” Will snapped. “Would you care to see a demonstration? I’d be more than happy to sew your mouth shut and steal your sword.”

Robin smiled broadly. “I think I’ll pass, but thank you for the offer.”

God, how Will _loathed_ this man. If only he could punch that wide, jackass-grin off of his smug, stupid face, he wouldn’t ask for anything else in the world.

“It’s an intricate design,” Robin continued, gesturing to the waistcoat. “Do you like wolves, Will?”

“Better than you.”

“They are fearsome animals, aren’t they?” Robin wondered aloud, completely ignoring the insult. “Strong, solitary, mysterious. Is that why you admire them?”

Will couldn’t take it anymore; he would rather throw himself onto a broadsword than spend one more second with this infuriating imbecile. He hastily finished lacing his boots and stormed out of the shelter, breaking into a trot and putting as much distance between himself and Locksley as quickly as he could.

Robin crossed his arms and watched Will Scarlet disappear from view. How on earth could anyone be so easily offended? It was as if Robin’s very presence brought out the worst in Will, even though he was being friendly and conversational—could they not even speak to one another without arguing? Lord, what a frustrating boy! His mother must have had the patience of a saint . . . _May she rest in peace_ , Robin added thoughtfully.

“Azeem, do you think I was too—” But when Robin turned, he found that the Moor had vanished.

“Of course, always there when I need you,” he muttered, shaking his head. Well, no sense standing here and talking to himself like a lunatic; he had work to do, particularly the divvying of that day’s spoils among the needy villagers and the suffering residents of Nottingham. Fanny seemed to know every family in the shire—her advice would be helpful.

With a more feasible goal in sight, Robin left the shelter and pointed himself purposefully in the direction of the Little household.

* * *

Will slowed to a brisk walk as he neared the edge of camp. The women were out and about now that the rain had ceased, busily tending stewpots, sending the older children on errands, and letting the little ones have a bit of playtime outside. The air was rich with the smell of supper, making Will even more reluctant to return to his hut. But he had no friends here—not anymore, thanks to Locksley—and he was too proud to ask for handouts. No, he would go back to his shoddy little shelter and scrape the mold off of his bread and at least be thankful that he didn’t—

“ _Salaam_ , Will.”

No man in Nottingham could sneak up on Will Scarlet, the thief with the eyes of an owl and the ears of a wolf; but this day, Will Scarlet jumped with surprise as Azeem suddenly appeared from around a tree.

“God!” he cried, then immediately tried to calm himself, embarrassed by his outburst.

“Nervous, my friend?” Azeem asked concernedly.

“No. I, ah . . . I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“And not enough in your belly. You look thin.”

“I’m fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return to Castle Scarlet—”

Azeem was not convinced, and reached out a hand to stop Will in his tracks. “Join me for the evening meal. I would be glad for your company.”

Will was also not convinced, and he scoffed incredulously. “ _My_ company? That’s a poor joke, Azeem, even for you.”

“Then allow me to examine your hand again. I am interested in seeing your improvement.”

Realizing that the Moor was not going to take ‘no’ for an answer, Will sighed and pretended to be highly inconvenienced, though in reality he was more thankful than words could express. “All right,” he grumbled, “but as long as you don’t make me drink that awful tea again.”

Azeem smiled and put a friendly arm around Will’s shoulder. “I would not dream of it.”

* * *

Hallelujah—a dry hut, a warm fire, and a bowl of hot stew! After two weeks’ living on the outskirts, Will felt as if he were in heaven. He tried to remember his manners and not wolf down his supper, but he’d been living off of tasteless trout and rock-hard bread for days, and this was the first decent meal he’d eaten in over a week. He was so grateful to Azeem that he became something of an awkward, bashful oaf; it wasn’t often he was shown such kindness and respect, and he was poorly equipped to deal with this unusual treatment. He did his best though, stammering out his thanks every so often, hoping that he wasn’t somehow insulting his host.

If Will’s manners were wanting, Azeem took no notice. He carried on a pleasant, casual conversation with his guest, avoiding the topic of Robin or Will’s painful past, and even managed to lure a few chuckles out of the lad by telling him humorous stories from his homeland. He had the feeling that joy spent too little time dwelling in Will’s heart, and did his best to amuse him without seeming patronizing.

“. . . so Mullah Rashad says, ‘Then the half of you who know what I am going to say can tell the other half!’ and then he left.”

Will snorted and laughed. “That’s clever! Are all the people where you come from so smart?”

“No,” said Azeem, smiling gently. “We have our fools and our simpletons, the same as any people.”

Will set aside his empty bowl and reclined on the comfortable pallet he’d been offered. “It must be hard for you to be so far from home.”

“Not as hard as one would imagine. Besides, I have always wanted to see the world.”

“Even if it means being an outcast, having people turn you away simply because of how you look or . . . or where you come from?”

Azeem detected the hint of melancholy in Will’s tone and suspected that he was no stranger to the hardships he had mentioned. He gazed at the young outlaw sympathetically. “The Greek philosopher Aristotle once said, _the antidote for fifty enemies is one friend_. So long as a man has one friend in this world, Will, he shall never be an outcast, and there will always be a home where he is welcomed.”

Will was quiet, allowing the words to sink in as he stared at the fire with a sad, distant expression. “How did you come to be friends with a man like Locksley?” he asked softly. “He was your enemy, wasn’t he?”

“Only because our countries told us we were,” Azeem said. “Our faiths had nothing to do with it, for our God is one and the same. But in the prisons of Jerusalem we faced a common enemy, and that is where we became allies.”

Will blinked in surprised. “You were imprisoned too?”

Azeem nodded. “Yes. And Robin chose to save me when other men would have saved themselves. I owe him my life, and have sworn a vow to repay my debt to him.”

“And what happens when you do? Will you leave England and go back to your home?” Will looked distinctly troubled. He liked Azeem. He didn’t want him to leave.

“No,” said the Moor, shaking his head. “There is nothing left for me in my homeland. Besides, it would pain me to leave a country with such beautiful weather.”

The two shared a chuckle at the obviously un-beautiful weather outside, though Will’s ended with a lengthy yawn.

“You are tired,” Azeem observed. “You are welcome to rest here tonight.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Will objected, though there was nothing he wanted more than to spend the night in a warm, dry hut, with blankets that weren’t soggy and dirty. “You’ve already done so much for me and I can’t—”

“Please. I insist.”

Will was feeling sleepy already, too sleepy to keep arguing. A belly full of stew and the fire crackling nearby guaranteed that he wasn’t much longer for the waking world. “Well, since you insist,” he murmured, stretching out on the pallet. “But just for a . . . little while. I don’t want to . . . be a nuisance . . .” He was asleep almost before he could finish his sentence.

Azeem smiled down at him and pulled a blanket over his body in an oddly parental gesture. “Sleep well, _sadiq_ ,” he said, patting Will’s shoulder. “Perhaps the sun will shine tomorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

Will was jolted out of a sound sleep by what sounded like a Viking war cry right in his ear. He flew upright with a startled gasp and drew the dagger he kept tucked in the front of his trousers. Without another thought, he hurled the blade in the direction of the intruder.

There came a thud, a squawk, and feathers suddenly exploded all over the interior of the hut.

Blinking himself awake, Will stared at the bright morning light streaming through the open doorway of the little dwelling. All was peaceful. The birds were singing in the trees, friendly voices of villagers called to one another outside, and there were certainly no Vikings invading the camp. There was, however, a very dead rooster lying on the dirt floor of the hut, a dagger sticking out of its very dead body. Feathers floated down through the air and settled on the ground.

Will crawled from his pallet on his hands and knees and stared at the skewered fowl with wide eyes. “Fuck me,” he uttered, “I killed it.”

He gave the rooster a cautious poke. Yes, it was definitely dead. Will hardly ever missed his mark, half asleep or not. The stupid bird must have wandered into the hut and woken him with a crow. Well, that was one rooster in Sherwood who would never crow again. Will raked a hand through his hair and sighed. Someone was going to be very angry about this.

Muttering under his breath, he reached out and picked up the dead rooster by its feet, dislodging his dagger from its corpse. Might as well face his crime like a man, he thought. He rose to his feet and shuffled out of the hut, blinking in the bright light.

The camp was buzzing like a hive and everyone seemed to be in good spirits. After three days of gray skies and rain, every soul in Sherwood was glad to see the sun again. Will hated to be the bearer of bad news on such a lovely day, but this rooster belonged to somebody, and he would just have to ask around until he—

“Will Scarlet!”

The sharp voice of Fanny Little cut across the clearing like a knife, and Will instinctively cringed. He turned around to see the plump, redheaded woman marching toward him with a gleaming hatchet in her hand.

Will never ran from a fight, but his mother had told him it was a mortal sin to strike a woman, and Will certainly had no intention of raising a finger against the wife of the biggest, strongest man in the shire, be it self defense or not. For a few seconds he was torn between running for his life and trying to explain himself, but by the time he decided to flee, Fanny was already upon him.

“Bless you, lad, I’ve been lookin’ all over for this blasted bird!” she cried, shouldering the hatchet. “Saved me the trouble of killin’ the bugger, too. I’ll certainly enjoy plucking this one!”

Will numbly handed the dead rooster back to its owner, too relieved to even think of an intelligent reply. “My pleasure,” he said dazedly. “Er, have you seen Azeem this morning?”

“Off with the rest of the menfolk at the crack o’ dawn. No doubt gettin’ an head start on an honest day’s work . . . You all right, Will? You look as if you’re still asleep.”

“I feel like I am,” he muttered, rubbing his face tiredly.

Fanny cocked her hip and reached into her pocket. “Here, since you was kind enough to take care of this ol’ rotter for me, have yourself some eggs. And for heaven’s sakes, lad, go jump in the river and wake up! It’s a right beautiful day—shouldn’t nobody miss it!”

Will smiled his thanks and accepted the eggs from Fanny, then watched the woman stride away with the rooster swinging in her hand. He shook his head, unable to believe that his fortune had turned around so quickly. A small miracle, but a miracle nonetheless.

He took a deep breath, savoring the fresh, clean scent of the forest. He gazed up into the trees, bursting with bright green leaves and dazzling spots of sunlight, and at the blue sky beyond. Fanny was right—it _was_ a beautiful day. Maybe he would take her advice about jumping in the river. It had been a while since his last bath, and he could stand to wash some of the dried mud off his clothes.

After breakfast, of course, Will thought, tucking the eggs safely into his waistcoat. It wasn’t every day that he got to eat a meal he hadn’t stolen, or wake up to fair, sunny weather after a full night’s rest in a comfortable bed. Perhaps his luck was finally beginning to improve.

A pair of small children—two brothers—ran past Will, laughing and squealing as they chased each other across the camp. It was impossible not to be amused by their happy faces and carefree voices. Perhaps everyone’s luck was changing for the better, Will realized, his smile slowly fading. Perhaps Locksley had been right about fighting back . . . Perhaps the spoiled little rich boy of yesteryear had also changed for the better.

Shaking the thought from his mind, Will started walking back toward Azeem’s hut. It was too early and far too lovely a day to burden himself with such heavy concerns. Right now, breakfast was the only thing he wanted to think about. Everything else, including Saint Robin of Locksley, could just wait.

* * *

Torrents of cold, fresh water thundered over the falls, the river swollen from days of rain. It would have been too cold if the sun hadn’t been shining, but the pool at the bottom of the waterfall was pleasantly refreshing without being frigid. The rocks that lined the shore were warm and sunlit; a pair of trousers and a shirt lay drying on them, as well as a few other recently-washed garments.

Will surfaced in the center of the pool with a sputter, water streaming down his bare chest. He gave his head a shake and slicked back his hair with his hands, feeling a bit more human now that he’d scrubbed the accumulation of dirt and grime from his skin.

Though his mother had been dead for four and a half years, Will’s memories of her seemed as vivid and clear as if she’d never passed. He smiled to himself, recalling how much emphasis she placed upon tidiness and personal cleanliness, teaching Will to wash and mend his own clothes so that he would have more appreciation for them, and making sure he had a clean neck at every meal and bedtime. After all, dirty little boys would grow up to become dirty old men someday, she told him.

For a woman not even twenty years old—and an unwed mother at that—Avalina Scarrington had had more wisdom and skill and grace than most ladies of the royal court. She was tidy, well-spoken, and had an excellent singing voice. She could also read Latin, write with a quill, and sew better than any woman who could sew faster. Her talents for embroidery and weaving earned her recognition across the shire, and this was ultimately how she came to meet Thomas Locksley—and fall in love with the sad, lonely widower—at the tender age of sixteen. Who would have thought that within a year’s time she would be turned out on the streets, her name sullied and her belly growing large with the child Locksley loved less than his own son . . .

Will felt his anger rising and quickly pushed the memories from his mind. He would not let the Locksley family haunt him for the rest of his life. Thomas was dead and his fool of a son would surely be joining him soon. One couldn’t keep taunting the Sheriff of Nottingham and expect to live a full, happy life. Robin’s days were numbered, and when they finally came to an end . . .

An odd feeling took hold of Will as he stood waist-deep in the cool green water, staring down at his own reflection.

 _I’ll be all alone. The last of my family. No other kin or blood relation . . . The last son of Locksley._

Will held his breath and plunged under the water, down into the quiet, placid darkness, as if trying to get away from his own tumultuous thoughts.

 _No. I am the son of Scarrington. I am Scarlet the Outlaw. Thomas Locksley was never a father to me. He never wanted me, never loved me, never embraced me or held me or comforted me . . ._

Reflected light danced over Will’s pale face as he tread the water, his hair floating weightlessly around his head. It was true that Lord Locksley had never acknowledged him as his son, but that didn’t stop Will from shedding tears when he learned of the man’s execution four months ago. He had been a terrible father, yes; a devil-worshiper, maybe; but that didn’t change the fact that he was still Will’s sire, the man who had given him life, one half of the union that had created him out of love, whose blood ran in Will’s veins, whose features Will had inherited and recognized in Robin of Locksley, his brother, his only kin. The last family he had left in this cold, corrupted world.

Will broke the surface with a splash and sucked in a breath. Away from the darkness—back to light. Back to life.

Hoping he had drowned his dismal thoughts, he waded to the shore and shook himself off, then sat on the warm rocks and allowed the sun to finish drying his skin, comfortable and unbothered by his nakedness. He reached to his trousers and produced a needle and thread from the special inner pocket he had sewn into them. Threading the needle with the ease of an experienced tailor, he set to work repairing the various small rips and loose seams in his clothing, casting each stitch as straight and evenly as any seamstress worth her salt.

Unexpectedly, the motion of sewing was causing the scab on the back of Will’s hand to begin to detach, already being soft and leathery from the water. With a faint look of disgust, he paused in the middle of mending his shirtsleeve and began to pick at the shell of hard, dead skin. Azeem had warned him to leave it alone, but he couldn’t have this revolting thing hanging off of his hand all day—it would drive him mad. He decided to take care of it now, regardless of what the Moor had told him.

To Will’s surprise, there was almost no resistance as he pulled off the unsightly scab, revealing the smooth pink skin of the scar between his knuckles. It didn’t look bad at all—it was almost impossible to believe that two weeks ago this had been a hole that had gone all the way through his flesh. Now it was barely noticeable. Smiling, he flexed his hand and wiggled his fingers. Everything was working as it should. This day kept getting better and better!

He spent a few more minutes tending to his clothes, then tucked his sewing kit back into its pocket and got dressed. Some of his garments were still a little damp, but if the sky remained as clear as it was now, they would soon be dry again.

Feeling unusually optimistic and cheerful, Will pointed himself toward camp again, hoping that Azeem had returned from the “hunting party” by now. No doubt the Moor would be interested to see how well his hand had healed.

Whistling a tune that blended with the melodies of the singing birds of the forest, Will disappeared into the trees.

* * *

There was a great deal of commotion when he arrived back at the sylvan village. Locksley and his men had indeed returned, and they were not alone. With them was a wagon loaded with barrels of every size, and somewhere a stranger’s voice was braying as loudly as a jackass. Naturally curious but even more cautious, Will slipped around the edge of the crowd to see if he could learn what had happened.

The loud voice, as he soon discovered, belonged to a fat, red-faced, sweaty-looking friar. Will examined the newcomer from a safe distance, wondering how a man of the cloth had come to be captured by the Merry Men of Sherwood.

“Oh, don’t worry about him, Will,” said Arthur, passing by. “Robin convinced him to come with us. You can trust him, he’s one of us.”

“One of us? He looks like three of us.”

Arthur laughed. “Aye, and he fights like three of us, too! Don’t get too close to his feet—he kicks like a mule. Just ask Robin, he knows all about it!”

Will continued to sift through the crowd, absorbing bits and pieces of information as he went. Apparently the men had managed to rob a heavily guarded caravan, making off with the friar’s ale wagon and the contents of one of Nottingham’s own carriages. The men were laughing and slapping each other on the back, congratulating themselves on a successful raid. As Will drew closer to the center of the group, he saw Locksley and John kneeling before a small chest, striking at the lock with an axe. With a smug smile finding its way to his lips, Will crossed his arms and watched them work, even though a crafty burglar such as himself could have easily picked it for them in half the time. It was more fun to watch Saint Robin struggle; the only thing he’d broken at this point was a sweat. _Amateurs_ , Will scoffed.

After enough smashing, however, the lock finally snapped and the chest was opened. A collective gasp escaped the onlookers, who murmured in wonder as they watched Robin reach in and grab a fistful of gold coins. They fell through his fingers, shining and clinking richly. He looked up at Azeem, who stood frowning down at the trunk suspiciously.

Almost as if reading the Moor’s mind, Robin nodded. “This treasure had a purpose,” he said lowly, then shut the lid as if it held a dangerous secret. “We must find out what.”

“How do we do that?” asked John.

Robin, whose clothes were curiously soaked, wiped his damp face on his sleeve. “We’ll have to send someone to Nottingham, to get close to the Sheriff and learn what he can.” He regarded the suddenly serious, uneasy faces around him. “Who among you is the most capable thief?”

Will should have slipped away when he had the chance, but he was too busy staring at the chest and wondering when he might be given the opportunity to liberate some of its contents. Lost in thought, he didn’t realize that the crowd had parted around him, all eyes turning toward him, leaving him standing on his own. When he finally noticed that he had become the center of attention, he froze like a deer at the snapping of a twig.

“Are you truly the best thief in Sherwood, Will?” Robin asked in a surprised voice.

God, he hated being caught out in the open like this—he felt defenseless and surrounded. His heart pounding nervously, Will muttered, “I’m not your messenger boy, Locksley, and I’m not risking my neck just to satisfy your curiosity. If you want to know so badly, why don’t _you_ go?”

“Are you the best thief in Sherwood?” Robin repeated.

“Are you the deafest man in Sherwood? I said I’m not go—”

“ _Are_ you the best thief in Sherwood, Will?”

“I’ll go, Robin,” came another voice. Everyone turned to see Frederick Furrows, also known as Frederick Fingers for his reputation as a jewelry thief in the village of Newark, step forward. He was older than Will by about six or seven years, tall and thin like a sapling, and his ears stuck out from under his cap like a carriage with both doors open. He would have been handsome if he were a little less gangly, and if his ears didn’t protrude quite so much.

“I reckon I’m just as good a thief as Scarlet,” Fred claimed proudly, “and I know for a fact that I’m twice as trustworthy. Let me go to Nottingham for you, Robin. Leave a man’s job to the _men_.”

There were a few soft, scattered chuckles, but most of the crowd remained silent, especially Much, George, Bull, and anyone who had known Will Scarlet long enough to understand how he’d gotten his current surname . . . and it wasn’t an affinity for the color red.

Will scowled with all the darkness and menace of a thunderstorm. He had never liked Fred Furrows, nor any man who boasted about deceiving women with his charming ways just to rob them of their trinkets. It was disgusting and ungentlemanly; Will loathed the cur, who was everything his mother had hated about men, and everything she had raised Will not to be.

“You call yourself a thief?” Will snapped. “You couldn’t steal horseshit if they were giving it away.”

“Piss off, Scarlet. You don’t got the brains God gave a flea.”

“It’s still more brains than you’ll ever have.”

“And twice as much as your mum has . . . sorry, _had_.”

There was a brief flicker of black, unadulterated rage that flashed in Will’s eyes, but his expression remained otherwise unchanged. Without batting an eye, he calmly drew his knife from his belt and began striding toward Fred. Azeem stepped up to intercept him, but, surprisingly, it was Robin who beat him to it.

“Peace, Will,” he said gently, holding his hands up as he blocked the angry outlaw’s path. “Don’t allow yourself to be provoked. That is exactly what he wants. Calm yourself.”

Will glared over Robin’s shoulder at Fred, who smiled and shrugged. He stood where he was for another moment, clenching his teeth and breathing heavily, then returned his gaze to Locksley and sheathed his knife.

Robin let out a small sigh of relief and nodded. “That’s better. Now tell me, Will, _are_ you the best thief in Sherwood?”

“I am.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Aye, prove it!” exclaimed Fred. “Let’s have a contest, a thieves’ contest!”

There was a rumble of agreement from the crowd. Robin warily studied the sullen young man in front of him. “Would you agree to a competition?”

“Anytime,” Will muttered, glowering at Fred.

“Then it’s settled,” said Robin, turning to his men. “We’ll have a contest to prove the best thief in Sherwood! Is there anyone else who would like to compete?”

Not surprisingly, there were no volunteers—no one was foolish enough to get involved in _this_ cockfight—but the men were nevertheless excited at the prospect of a tournament and were already placing their bets on the victor. It was simply fun and games to them, a source of much-needed entertainment. To Will Scarlet, however, it was a wholly different matter.

Azeem approached from the side and laid a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Are you certain you want to do this?”

“I’m certain,” said Will firmly. “This is _my_ forest. I’ll not be run out by a slithering streak of slime like Fred Furrows.”

As Azeem watched Will stride away, he couldn’t help but wonder if the young man shared a similar attitude toward his estranged half-brother, who had more or less arrived in “his forest” and all but run him out; no doubt this was a subtle way for Will to prove himself to Robin, of showing him that he was more than just the surly, disagreeable loner everyone took him for. Azeem pondered what sort of outcome could be expected from such a test of skills . . . and how (or if) it was possible to measure a talent such as thievery.

“What are your thoughts, Azeem?” asked Robin.

“How one might prove himself a better thief to another,” he answered, stroking his mustache. “I fear you may have begun a contest for which there can be no victor.”

“I wouldn’t worry about _that_ , mate,” said John, stepping up with a broad smile. “I know the perfect way to test these two rascals. Follow me!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will’s humorous line of “One of us? He looks like three of us,” comes from the 1938 version of Will Scarlet in _The Adventures of Robin Hood_ , starring Errol Flynn. I thought it’d be a nice little tribute (and bit of trivia) to the Robin Hood universe.


	4. Chapter 4

In the heart of Sherwood there lay a small, golden field—a spot of eternal sunshine kept safe and secret by the thick, mysterious forest that surrounded it. Few knew of its existence, even those who had been living in exile in Sherwood for the past few years. A rocky brook trickled through the middle of the clearing, emptying into a green, quiet pool just beyond the trees. Aside from its natural beauty, there wasn’t really anything extraordinary about it . . . except for the old hollow tree that stood at its edge. Pieces of the trunk had rotted and fallen away, revealing a deep, black interior of crawling, buzzing insects.

Honeybees.

John, standing with Azeem and Robin at his side, crossed his arms and beamed. “There it is, mateys,” he declared. “The greatest test to any thief! No man’s ever been able to steal a comb from that tree without gettin’ the bloody mess stung outta him—I reckon our lads’ll find this a proper challenge!”

Robin blinked, marveling at the size of the tree. He could hear the buzzing all the way across the field; there must be as many bees inside it as stars in the sky. If a man were to upset a hive of that size, only the mercy of God could save him.

“I don’t know, John,” Robin murmured, trying to imagine Will—or any other man, for that matter—coming away from the tree without looking like a pox victim. “It seems too dangerous.”

“You got a better idea, mate?”

Unfortunately, Robin didn’t. This seemed to be the best way to judge the better of two thieves, though Robin doubted that even the victor would escape without at least fifty stings. “All right,” he sighed. “Bring out the contenders. Let’s see if they’re brave enough to accept the challenge.”

* * *

Will Scarlet leaned against a tree trunk, his arms crossed over his chest, trying not to openly glare at Fred Furrows, who was sitting on a stump a few paces away and forming figures out of a long loop of string wrapped around his fingers. He went from a cat’s cradle to Jacob’s Ladder with a few skilled movements, giving little wonder as to how he’d earned the nickname “Fred Fingers”. Suddenly there came the recognizable sound of John’s long, heavy stride, and the tall man appeared from the trees with a broad grin on his face.

“The challenge has been set,” he announced, beckoning them to follow. “Right this way, lads.”

Will and Fred shared a quick, furtive glance at one another before picking themselves up and following John into the trees. When they came to the edge of the field, Robin turned to regard the two thieves with a somber, serious look, but his gaze seemed to linger on Will.

“I’ll not hold anything against the man who wishes to withdraw from this contest,” he said plainly, “for the task is a dangerous one, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

Turning his head, Will suddenly noticed that Robin was staring at him, almost as if the compassionate message were intended solely for him. Feeling uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed, Will scowled and looked the other way.

“What’s the challenge, Robin? _I’m_ not afraid,” said Fred haughtily, passing a smug look down at his shorter competition.

Robin motioned toward the hollow tree on the other side of the field. “To steal a comb of honey from that hive without getting stung.”

Will inclined his head, his expression neutral but his eyes bright with shock. Beside him, Fred had gone stone-still and was holding his breath. Both thieves did an excellent job of masking their fear, but had they known of the treacherous task they would be facing, it would be safe to assume that neither would have agreed. However, their pride and honor was at stake now, and nothing—not even the risk of grievous bodily harm—would have been enough to convince them to back out.

“I accept,” said Will.

“I also accept,” added Fred hastily.

John grinned. “Then it appears we have a contest! You explain the rules to ‘em, Rob—I’ll go get the rest of the lads.”

“There’s going to be an _audience_?” Will exclaimed.

“O’ course!” John laughed, giving the young outlaw a hearty clap on the back. “Fine entertainment, seein’ a man sing at the top o’ his lungs with a shirt full o’ bees ticklin’ ‘im! No one in Sherwood’ll want to miss it!”

With a vague look of horror on his face, Will watched John lumber away. Fred didn’t look much better—he was as pale as a sheet and drops of sweat were already popping out on his face in fat, salty beads. He wiped them away and tried to look more composed than his opponent, but both of them were clearly disturbed.

“Are you sure you neither of you want to forfeit?” Robin asked again, gently. He was met with a chorus of firm, anxious negatives, and he sighed. “All right. Azeem will give each of you a jar. One of you will be selected to go first. Your challenge, as you already know, will be to approach the tree and remove a comb from the hive without getting stung . . . or receiving as few stings as possible. This will test not only your stealth and your strategy, but also your ability to remain calm in the face of danger, possibly while enduring great pain.”

Robin couldn’t help but look at Will now, his chest growing tight as some primal, instinctive urge to protect this young man rose up from the very marrow of his bones. He didn’t know what had possessed him to feel this way—it was clear that Will hated him for some unknown crime he had committed, yet the thought of the lad being mercilessly stung by scores of furious bees was almost enough to make Robin sick to his heart. Though Will was infuriatingly stubborn, rebellious, and disagreeable, Robin didn’t want to see him get hurt; at the same time, however, he couldn’t prevent him from participating in this event. It was his choice, his desire, and Robin would have to honor it.

A short while later, John returned with the Merry Men and the greater part of the Sherwood residents at his heels, all chattering excitedly and lining up at the edge of the forest to watch the event. Robin held up his arms and the crowd fell silent. Though Will was disgusted by how eagerly Locksley’s followers obeyed him, he couldn’t help being impressed at the power and respect he commanded from them. In a time when every peasant in Nottingham had made an enemy out of the ruling class, the people of the shire had accepted Robin almost immediately, and now, after his numerous acts of generosity and kindness toward those in need, he was adored as well.

Will would have counted himself blessed to be loved by even _one_ person.

Robin launched into the opening speech: “Today, two of Sherwood’s best thieves—Will Scarlet and Fred Furrows—shall be competing against each other in a test of wits and skill . . .”

While Robin explained the contest and its rules, Azeem approached the challengers and handed them each a crudely-made earthen jar for carrying their prizes, should they be able to obtain them. As he passed Will his jar, he leaned close and whispered, “Are you certain you know what you are doing, my friend?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Will, smiling wanly. “Trust me.”

The Moor sighed and clasped Will’s forearm in a gesture of good luck. “May Allah protect and deliver you from harm.”

“Amen to that . . . Here, do you think you could hold these for me?” Will shrugged off his waistcoat and removed his burgundy overshirt, folding them carefully and handing them to Azeem. The man observed the curious behavior with a puzzled look, but nodded his assent and accepted the garments.

“I have a feeling that you might know what you are doing,” he said sagaciously, watching as Will laced up the collar of his off-white undershirt and rolled down his sleeves, making sure that his cuffs were securely fastened and his shirt tucked snugly into his trousers.

He spared Azeem a nervous grin. “We’ll both find out soon enough.”

The Moor ducked out of the way as Robin finished his announcement and turned to the two thieves. “We shall draw straws to see who goes first,” he said, then paused. “Unless one of you has the courage to volunteer.”

The rancor of the word “courage” conjured up bitter and painful memories for Will, filling him with the reckless urge to step forward and prove to Locksley what a poor judge of character he was; but Will knew that he must hold his tongue and bear this fleeting insult, deliberate or unintended as it was—if he lost his temper now, it would ruin his plan. He must remain patient.

As predicted, boastful Fred stuck out his chin and said, “I should like to go first!”

Robin looked toward Will. “Do you abide by this?”

Will bit the inside of his cheek to keep from blurting out a crude remark, nodding his consent with a disingenuous smile.

“Very well, then,” Robin said. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr Furrows.”

The crowd fell silent, all eyes on Frederick Furrows as he rolled up his sleeves, removed his dagger from his belt, and began to very slowly make his way across the field. He moved quietly, hunched low like a cat stalking a bird, drawing ever nearer to the great buzzing hive of bees.

But not everyone was fixated on Fred’s progress.

While the people of Sherwood watched Fred, Will was watching the people, making certain that every eye was trained on the other thief before he stealthily, with all the natural grace of the slyest, most cunning wolf, stepped backward and disappeared, first among the crowd, then into the shadows of the trees.

Not even Robin or Azeem noticed that the second contestant had suddenly vanished, too preoccupied with observing Fred as he came upon the hollow oak, his movements now stuttering and nervous as the honeybees buzzed past him on their way to and from their busy hive.

The spectators bit their lips and anxiously wrung their hands, wondering if (and how) Fred would achieve his goal. He had been miraculously lucky so far, though it wouldn’t last forever—Will was keenly aware of this as he approached the hive from the opposite side, hidden from view by the sheltering trees on the edge of the field. He crouched down at the forest’s edge and watched Fred sidle up to the trunk of the oak, his body as stiff as a board, breathing heavily as his skin glistened with sweat.

Will shook his head and grinned out of sheer amazement that the bumbling oaf had gotten as far as he had. If there was one thing bees hated, it was the odor of human sweat and breath. This information had not come cheaply, though:

Ten years ago, there had been an old beekeeper who lived in Mansfield, the village where Will was born and raised. By the age of eight, young William Scarrington had become obsessed with the idea of stealing honey. He had already proven himself to be talented at egg-snatching and pick-pocketing, but honey soon became the only gold that Will desired.

The tenacious young thief must have spent the better part of four months trying to rob the old beekeeper, failing every time and returning home with swollen knots on his arms and neck, sometimes even on his back, for those horrid little creatures would crawl down his shirt and sting him until he was forced to throw himself on the ground to crush them. His mother would then chastise him for getting his clothes dirty, so the punishment was always twofold: painful sores and twice the chores, since he had so much idle time to spend playing with bees. Will didn’t dare tell his mother that he was trying to steal honey—she would have whipped him like a mule if she had known what a shameless thief her beloved son was turning into. Of course, gruesome poverty has a way of turning the most honest man into a criminal—and desperation, coupled with determination, forced young Will to hone his skills. It was either become a better thief or suffer from hunger all winter long.

So Will persisted with his efforts. He was stung over and over again, so often that he soon learned to forget his fear of the bees’ stings—it was no worse than getting pricked by a needle, he reasoned, and he’d been doing that since he was old enough to wind a spool of his mother’s thread. Using his brain, Will observed the old beekeeper when he worked and mimicked the man’s habits, eventually learning that it was preferable to wear light-colored clothing instead of dark, and that it was wise to cover your nose and mouth with a kerchief so that the bees would not be provoked by your scent. It was also advisable to bathe before tending the bees, as they were so sensitive to smells, and that fanning the hive with smoke had a calming effect on them. But once the bees were disturbed and began stinging, the others would join in and attack the intruder, covering him until he was finally forced to flee. And Will was certain that this was exactly what was going to happen to Fred Furrows, the sweaty, stinking cur who likely hadn’t bathed in over a week, and who was now reaching into the hollow tree to carve out a comb of honey.

Will knew it was time to make his move. Though he was already ahead of the game, having bathed and washed his clothes that morning, he tied a handkerchief around his head, covering the lower half of his face so that his breath would leave less of an impression upon his little insect friends. Leaving his jar behind, he drew his knife, rose up, and began to creep toward the tree.

Azeem was the first to spot Will as he slunk into view from around the side of the oak. The Moor grabbed Robin’s arm and pointed, and Robin’s mouth fell open in surprise. “What is he doing? Is he trying to sabotage the—”

“No, he has more honor than that,” Azeem insisted, breaking into an amused smile. “I think we are about to see just how good a thief Will Scarlet is.”

Fred was streaming sweat as he reached into the black mouth of the tree with his dagger. Bees crawled all over his dark clothes and his pale, waxy face, their little legs tickling and itching and making him tremble at the thought of all those stingers suddenly jabbing into his flesh at once. He was so focused on the task of stealing a honeycomb that he never noticed Will rise up from behind him and reach for his belt.

The audience, already shocked by the unexpected appearance of the second contender, now bit their fists with delight as they watched Will Scarlet, who must have a touch even lighter than air, remove first Fred’s dagger sheath, then both of his leather pouches, and finally, the whole belt itself.

Robin smiled and laughed, unable to believe his own eyes. “Look at him!” he exclaimed to Azeem, his voice brimming with admiration. “Can you believe it? A thief so masterful that he can steal the belt off another thief in broad daylight! Genius!”

Azeem observed Robin’s delighted smile and twinkling eyes with interest, wondering if perhaps his Christian friend was beginning to feel a growing connection between himself and his unknown half-brother. He also wondered if, when the day came, Robin would welcome Will into his life with the same degree of happiness which he now displayed. _Only time will tell_ , the Moor thought with a wistful sigh. Only time, and only Will.

Friar Tuck guffawed and slapped his thigh as excited murmurs rippled through the crowd—Will Scarlet wasn’t finished yet! The clever young outlaw now slipped his hand into Fred’s front pocket and emptied it in less than a minute, did the same with the other, then finished his grand stunt by cutting the laces at the back of the man’s trousers. And then, just as smoothly as he had appeared, Will gathered up his loot and slipped out of view behind the tree again.

Completely unaware of the sensational event that had just taken place, Fred, with sweat rolling down his brow and his dark blue shirt covered with bees, began to cut away a dripping, sticky comb from within the hive. At the same time, a curious honeybee decided to inspect the inside of Fred’s shirtsleeve, and when it became trapped in the folds of smelly cloth, it reacted the way any irritated bee would: it jabbed its stinger directly into the offending object, which happened to be the tender underside of Fred’s forearm.

Instead of keeping quiet and slowly pulling his arm from the depths of the tree, as he should have done, Fred Furrows let out a yelp and jerked back. His trousers, loosened by their severed laces, slid down and became tangled in his legs, causing him to stumble and fall backward, his arms spinning like a windmill. Another bee, pinched in Fred’s collar, decided it had had enough and sank its pointy bottom through the man’s shirt and into the tender flesh of his neck.

And just like that, the bees that had moments ago been innocently milling all over this strange new animal now became riled by its displeasing odor and flailing motions. Fred let out a scream that sent the forest birds fleeing as dozens of furious stingers all sank into him at the same time. Bees began to pour out of the tree in a thick black cloud, answering the colony’s call to attack. Fred dragged himself to his feet, yanked up his flapping trousers, and began to tear across the field like a wild man, howling and bellowing and slapping at himself as the swarm gave chase.

The spectators began to laugh and applaud at the amusing sight, though Fred would probably never laugh at this situation (or anything ever again, for that matter) unless he managed to lose the ferocious cloud of tiny demons buzzing at his heels.

As the blundering fool ran shrieking across the clearing, Will sauntered around the side of the oak and leaned against it casually, smiling behind his kerchief as he watched the loathsome Frederick Furrows beat a path toward the pond and hurl himself in as if he were on fire. There came an almighty splash, followed by a string of wet, gurgled curses. The onlookers cheered and applauded the performance—what a show!

But it wasn’t over just yet.

Will reached down and picked up Fred’s discarded jar, then moved toward the gaping hole in the tree. Surprised whispers hissed through the crowd as the people of Sherwood forgot all about Fred and turned their attention to Will, who had already won the tournament as far as they were concerned; what in the name of God was he doing reaching into the hive that had seconds ago sent another man running and screaming in mortal pain?

“What is he trying to prove?” Robin demanded, looking distinctly worried. “He’s going to get hurt!”

Azeem laid a hand on his companion’s shoulder, more to keep him from interfering than to offer consolation. “Wait,” he said patiently. “He knows what he is doing.”

Indeed, Will knew precisely what he was doing. There was no better time to collect honey than when most of the colony was out of the hive. Only a few bees remained, thanks to Fred’s noble decision to go first, and now Will, using his left and least-injured hand, broke off a gooey golden comb from the interior of the tree and slowly placed it in the jar. Unfortunately, he was unaware that he’d pinned a bee in the bunches of his sleeve, and the terrified little creature stung him as he bent his elbow.

Will winced, but was otherwise unaffected.

Now with a loaded jar and several of Fred’s pilfered belongings, Will gradually began to make his way across the field, giving the bees on his shirt ample time to fly off. When he arrived at the edge of the forest, he was greeted with cheers and hollers by the Merry Men and the other residents of Sherwood Forest. It was the warmest welcome—and the most positive attention—Will had ever received. He pulled down his kerchief and smiled as he was patted on the back and praised for his cleverness and abilities, for simply being who he was. This truly _was_ the best day of his life!

Azeem approached with a knowing smirk on his face and handed Will’s waistcoat and overshirt to him. “You are full of surprises, my young friend,” he said.

“Well, a good thief should always have more than one trick up his sleeve,” Will replied, grinning and showing off his tightly-fastened shirtsleeve. “Less room for bees.”

The Moor chuckled and patted Will’s shoulder.

Robin suddenly appeared, smiling widely and looking overjoyed to see the young thief unharmed. Will, however, suddenly closed up like clam, his happiness vanishing from his face as Robin extended his hand to be shaken. “That was truly magnificent, Will. I’ve never seen anything like—”

Instead of a hand, a sticky jar was thrust into Robin’s grasp.

“Your honeycomb, milord,” Will muttered.

Robin balked for a moment, as if suddenly remembering that he and Will Scarlet were not friends and had never been friends, that Will still hated him for some reason, even though Robin had been trying hard to be friendly and welcoming and patient. God, what was he doing wrong? Robin didn’t understand at all.

“Er, thank you,” he said awkwardly, “but really, it’s yours. You’ve earned it.”

“No, I stole it. Just like I stole all this.” Will abruptly dropped Fred’s belt, sheath, and other personal belongings to the ground. The people fell quiet as they sensed something amiss between their leader and the hero of the day.

Will’s green eyes were as sharp as cut glass as he stared up at Robin. “There’s a big difference between earning something and taking it, but I don’t expect a man of your noble station to know anything about _that_.”

“In my youth, perhaps, I didn’t,” said Robin, determined not to allow Will’s cold, unpleasant attitude to get the best of him. “But the Holy War taught me much about what a man is owed and what he thinks he is owed.”

Will scowled as the people around him nodded their heads in agreement, but he kept his mouth shut, wondering if Locksley was going to tell more about his time in Jerusalem.

But Robin had a far more important message to share: “Though we are taught from an early age that it is wrong to steal, sometimes we are given no choice,” he said. “Sometimes, in order to survive, we must do things our virtues would otherwise condemn. Today, Will, you proved yourself more than just the greatest thief in Sherwood; you proved yourself to be a survivor . . . But there’s more to life than just surviving. I want you to thrive—and Nottingham as well. With your help, with your skills and your smarts, we can make that happen again. With you on our side, there is no way we could fail.”

Will had never been the subject of flattery before, and he hoped to God that he wasn’t blushing as hotly as he felt. He put on a frown just in case he was, determined to show that it would take more than a few eloquent words from Locksley’s educated tongue to turn him into a mindless lackey.

“What say you, Will?” Robin asked, his blue eyes gently beseeching the young outlaw. “Will you lend us your strength so that we may take Nottingham back from the men who have corrupted it? Will you join us and help us to discover the purpose behind that chest of gold?”

Put on the spot again. Will hated having the villagers’ eyes on him, all eagerly waiting to hear his answer; it made the pressure of the moment suffocating. Will swallowed dryly as he scanned the familiar, hopeful faces around him: Much and Bull, Arthur and George, Wulf and John . . . Azeem, neutral as ever . . . and Fanny, who had her hands clasped to her chest and whose plump, motherly face spoke more clearly to Will than any other in the crowd. It was saying, _We believe in you, lad. We know you can help us. Do the right thing. We’ll be behind you every step of the way._

Will licked his lips and raised his eyes to Robin, waiting patiently for a response. “All right,” he murmured after a tense, lengthy pause. “But I follow no man’s orders but my own. It’s my task, so I will make the plan.”

Robin smiled. “After what I saw today, I would trust no man’s plan but yours.”

Will shrugged on his waistcoat and pretended not to care as the people around him began to chatter with delight. Let them be happy—it made no difference to him.

However, as he slipped away from the crowd and into the quiet, solitary peace of the forest, he couldn’t restrain it any longer: he grinned and let out a giddy cry of “Wee!”, springing up onto a fallen tree as nimbly as a deer and jumping off in an uncharacteristic display of youthful joy. He trotted toward camp with a bounce in his step that hadn’t been there since his mother died; it was back now, even if it wasn’t destined to last.

 _But the length of one’s joy does not matter_ , thought Azeem with a small smile, watching from the edge of the forest as Will disappeared from sight.

An hour of happiness was sweeter than any jar of honey.


	5. Chapter 5

The apple tree stood at the edge of Baron Gilford’s property like an old sentry, watching over the orchards of Nottingham with a thick skin of bark and deeply-planted roots. It was a hundred years old if it was a day, the tough, weather-beaten survivor of drought and flood and storm. It had seen long, hot summers and cruel, snowy winters, fierce winds and fiercer lightning. But still it stood, and still it remained.

Its blossoms had disappeared with the passing of summer, and now the cool, golden days of autumn were making their seasonal turn. The tree, proud as a new mother, brought forth another year’s crop of plump red apples. Satisfied by its lovely progeny, it stretched its heavy limbs toward the sun and basked in the warm afternoon, relaxing after its long labor. It didn’t mind the occasional traveler who rested under its boughs, nor the laughing child who crawled up its back and swung from its branches. They were welcome visitors.

One such visitor was burrowed within its limbs now, an older boy with a cloth sack, climbing toward the higher branches to reach the few apples that had escaped the pickers’ hands. He was a light and agile lad, scurrying between the tree’s boughs as effortlessly as any squirrel, navigating the treacherous tangles of wiry branches and sharp, chafing bark. He snapped off another apple and placed it in his sack with the other four he had managed to scrounge up. They weren’t much, but would be dearly appreciated when there was nothing else to eat. In fact, the boy was rather hungry at the moment; perhaps he’d eat one now, while it was still fresh. Nothing was worse than a soft, mealy apple.

He found a comfortable perch on a broad, overhanging limb and sat himself down, crunching large bites out of an apple and listening to the birds sing. If only his mother were here, he thought sullenly. She would know what sort of birds they were. She knew the call of every fowl in England, for birds were her very favorite animal. She used to embroider them onto cloaks and dresses when times were better, and had originally wanted to put them on the leather waistcoat she’d made for her son. However, given the shrewd, serious nature of her boy, she had decided to replace the birds with something a little more appropriate to his character. Wolves were certainly more masculine than cardinals, and her son had been enthralled by the unexpected present.

It would be an entire year soon, fifteen-year-old Will Scarrington thought distantly, gazing across the fields with his mother’s green eyes and his father’s introspective mind. He was reminded with every passing holiday, every birthday, every beautiful day like this one, that she was gone, and he wondered if the gaping hole in his heart would ever cease to ache. Sometimes the emptiness pained him so terribly that he felt he would die from it, but his grip on life was too strong, and his resilience to death too powerful. No, he would continue to live, though lately it seemed more of a punishment than a blessing.

Will finished his apple and tossed the bare remains to the ground, then looked up when he heard the sound of thumping hooves coming his way. He abandoned his low-hanging seat in favor of a higher one, and, safely hidden from view, peered through the leaves at the scene unfolding across the field. A man on a horse was riding hard in Will’s direction, whistling and slapping the reins against the horse’s flanks. After a few seconds, Will saw the reason for his haste: a group of six horsemen wearing the dark uniforms of Nottingham soldiers appeared over the rise, tenaciously in pursuit of their quarry.

 _A horse thief?_ Will pondered. _A murderer? An outlaw?_ It didn’t really matter, but Will glad that he wasn’t the one being run down like an animal. He clung to the tree and watched with renewed interest as the soldiers suddenly abandoned the chase and brought their mounts to a halt. Though they were quite far away from Will’s tree, the terrain was flat and the wind carried their voices to his curious ears.

“He’s heading towards the road,” came a harsh, wicked-sounding snarl. “Turn your course north and cut him off before he reaches the wood. Once you’ve captured him, await my arrival.”

“Why the delay, sir?”

“That’s no concern of yours, fool! Now follow my orders before I have you all flogged for defying a direct order!”

With a frantic chorus of agreement, the five riders thundered northward and left their leader on his own. Then, to Will’s unexpected dismay, the man turned his steed and began heading for the tree. Gripped by an irrational panic, Will immediately scrambled for higher territory and flattened himself against a thin, wobbling bough just as the horse was drawn to a stop beneath him.

Will held his breath and stared down though the strata of leaves and branches as the man (a knight? a captain of the army?), richly dressed in solid black attire, dismounted with a slight groan and walked stiffly over to the trunk of the tree. There came the sound of rustling cloth, followed by the steady, distinct patter of a man urinating. Will curled his lip. He hoped this was the first time the tree had ever been pissed on, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to eat its apples ever again. He shifted his weight to relieve some of the pressure on his ribs, and that was when it happened.

He was already falling before he heard the gut-wrenching sound of cracking wood, and the world was suddenly thrown topsy-turvy as he crashed through what felt like the first five circles of hell. Branches slashed and tore at him, bark shredded his exposed skin, twigs and leaves whipped his face, clawing like a pack of angry cats—and then, air.

Will was quick-witted enough to shield his head with his arms before he hit the ground, and it probably prevented him from breaking his skull on the hard, root-tangled ground. On the other hand, his actions had left his torso exposed; he landed hard on his right side, cracking a rib and giving his hip a bruise that would take weeks to fade. But aside from these minor injuries, he was otherwise in fair condition. A miracle, really, considering that he had just fallen fifteen feet. His grip on life was indeed strong.

“Well, well, what have we here?” came the serrated, amused voice from above.

Will uncovered his head and saw the man in black looking down at him with disturbingly keen interest. He was hardly handsome: long, greasy hair, a broad forehead looming over his hawkish nose, and a pair of beady, gleaming weasel eyes. He wore gold hoops in his ears and his teeth were foul from overindulgence of wine and meat, and though Will had never met him before, he knew that this man was a villain.

“Stealing apples, eh, boy?” he rasped, gazing toward the spilled sack on the ground.

Will hesitated for exactly one second, then clambered madly backward to make his escape. He hadn’t moved five whole inches before the man sprang forward and pointed a crossbow at Will’s face. Will froze, his eyes focusing upon the deadly bolt almost touching his nose.

“There is nowhere to run,” said the man patiently, “and if you try, you will be dead before you get three paces. Understand?”

Will nodded, his body throbbing with pain. He didn’t think he could run even if he wanted to.

“Good.” The crossbow was lifted off of him. “Now then, who are you and what business do you have plundering Nottingham’s orchards, hm?”

A memory flashed through Will’s mind: his mother, prudent and practical, telling him in her matter-of-fact tone that men of power were easily corrupted and that none could be trusted. “Should you find yourself in the presence of a superior, William,” she’d said, “do not speak. Do not make yourself known. The nobility of Nottingham are poisoned with wickedness, and they will find any and every reason to bring misery upon you. You must stay away from them, no matter how kind or compassionate they may seem; these are only deceptions meant to fool us ‘simple folk’ into believing their lies. If you see a nobleman coming your way, Will, run as fast as you can. And should you find yourself confronted by one, never, under any circumstances, _ever_ tell him your name.”

And Will, following the advice of a mother whom he loved even more than God and life, kept his mouth shut and said nothing.

The man furrowed his brow. “What’s the matter, boy? Are you dumb? Was Mummy too stupid to teach you to speak?”

A vicious scowl creased Will’s scratched and bloody face, which elicited a chuckle from his captor.

“I see that you at least understand an insult. Good. Now perhaps you’ll understand a threat: answer me with the proper respect or I’ll cut out your tongue and nail it to this bloody tree. Do you want to spend the rest of your life as a babbling, incomprehensible beggar?”

Will licked his lips and swallowed. “N-no . . . sir.” His mouth soured on the last word, which was rare and unfamiliar in his vocabulary.

The man gave a rotten smile. “There, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? . . . _Was it_?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought so. Stand up, let me have a look at you.”

Gingerly, Will pulled himself to his feet, finding out with some relief that his legs were still working as they should. They hurt in places, but he was fairly certain he could run on them if the occasion called for it.

The man stepped forward and took Will firmly by the jaw, turning his head this way and that, as if he were livestock being examined for quality. Will was offended by the intrusive touch, but knew that any physical retaliation might result in injury or death. This scoundrel seemed capable of delivering both.

“You look familiar,” he muttered, studying Will’s face. “Do I know your father?”

A surge of panic coursed through Will’s body. “No, I, I doubt it. Sir,” he stammered. “I never, ah, never knew him myself.”

“I see. Your mother, perhaps?”

“Only a poor peasant, sir.”

“And where might she be?”

“Dead, sir. She . . . passed away last winter.”

“How unfortunate,” said the man flatly, still scrutinizing Will as if the truth were written somewhere on his face. “Who looks after you now?”

“I do, sir.”

“Have you no other family?”

“None that—er, n-no, sir.”

“Where do you live?”

“Nowhere. Anywhere. Sir.”

The man finally let go of Will’s face and shook his head. “It’s a pity,” he sighed, not sounding the least bit sorry. “Thieves caught in the act are subject to a fine, though I doubt a homeless wretch such as yourself has the means to afford it. I’m afraid I have no choice but to arrest you.”

“But-!” A desperate fear gripped Will; he took a step backward and was blocked by the tree’s immovable trunk. “But it was just a few apples!”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” the man growled, raising his crossbow menacingly. “The King rules England. This tree grows in England, therefore it belongs to the King, and anything you steal off of it is his property! Do you know what the penalty is for stealing from the _King of England_?”

Will was more frightened now than he had ever been in his life. Here was this terrible man accusing him of what sounded like a heinous crime, and he didn’t even have the right to defend himself without being punished for speaking out against his betters! What kind of justice were they practicing in Nottingham? Will was so scared and outraged that tears began to flood his eyes.

The man smirked lazily and lowered his crossbow, taking a step forward and casually resting his arm on the trunk above Will’s head. He smiled down at Will, who cringed at their closeness and shrank back against the tree.

“Now, Sir Guy of Gisborne is a fair man,” he said in a low, slithering tone, “and he might be willing to overlook a few petty crimes in favor of a better arrangement.” He smiled and gave a light, playful tug to a lock of Will’s hair. “My cousin, the Sheriff, runs a very busy household. There is always some sort of work to be done; I’m sure I could find a suitable place for you among his servants . . . or mine. A boy of your, hm, _uncommon_ looks would offer rather good sport, I daresay.”

Will’s skin began to crawl for reasons he was not yet aware of—but his instincts were screaming at him to get away from this man, this vermin, this _Guy of Gisborne_ , no matter the cost.

“In fact—” Gisborne leaned in close, his dark eyes shining and his hot, putrid breath pouring down Will’s bare neck “—I would very much like to see how well you fit on my staff. It would be a satisfying position, plenty of special benefits . . .”

And then Will felt something more than just revulsion—he felt a hand.

For three complete seconds his mind left him as he stood staring, horrified and speechless, at Guy of Gisborne. But then his senses returned, and all he saw was red.

He didn’t even think. He simply threw his head into Gisborne’s and heard a sharp, wet snap as the man’s nose was broken. He staggered back, and Will brought his knee up into his crotch, feeling the layers of cloth and leather cushion what would have been a debilitating blow; but it was enough to make Gisborne scream and stumble away.

With his heart pounding and his mind flashing thoughts as quickly as a lightning storm, Will lashed out with his foot and caught Gisborne’s right arm, sending the crossbow flying through the air. It hit the ground and triggered the release—the bolt shot harmlessly into the grass.

Gisborne was reeling with pain. Will took advantage of his momentary distraction and raced toward the horse, knowing it was the only way he would ever be able to flee his attacker. He threw himself against the animal’s side and clumsily tried to get his foot into the stirrup, but the horse was spooked and Will had never tried to climb into a saddle before. He fumbled and slipped and panicked, and then he saw Gisborne, his nose streaming blood, lurching toward him out of the corner of his eye. Will turned just in time to save himself from being stabbed, and the dagger struck the horse instead. The animal gave a whinny of pain and reared up, pawing at the air, before thundering away with Gisborne’s blade protruding from its flank.

“Little-! Bastard-!” the wicked man seethed, reaching for his sword.

The realization came to Will in a split second: Gisborne was going to kill him unless Will killed him first. It was simple fact, as plain and straightforward as could be, and quite possibly the most terrifying notion of Will’s young life. He didn’t want to die, certainly not at the filthy hands of a corrupted knight such as Guy of Gisborne; so, powered by the vehement desire to live rather than any amount of bravery, he drew his knife from his belt and leaped.

Strike fast. Strike hard. The eyes. The neck. The stomach. The groin. Disable quickly. Finish him off. Run for your life. Get him before he gets you. Kill. Stab. Maim. Run. Kill. _Kill._ These primitive instincts of self-preservation were the sole, fueling force of Will’s actions. He had lost all sense of judgment, mercy, fairness, and was now more animal than human.

Gisborne had his sword half unsheathed when the tip of Will’s blade cut into his cheek, splitting flesh and fat as it drew a deep, gushing line from his ear to his cheekbone. The man roared in pain and clapped a hand to his bleeding cheek. Rills of blood trickled between his gloved fingers.

Emboldened by his success and flooded with adrenaline, Will pounced toward Gisborne again, this time aiming at his throat. But the knight saw him coming and blocked the blow with his arm, seizing Will by the wrist. For one second the two enemies locked eyes with each other, then Gisborne, with his greater size and weight, threw himself forward and Will stumbled back, falling flat onto the ground. Gisborne landed on top of him, knocking the air from Will’s lungs and causing his cracked rib to flare with magnificent, excruciating pain.

There was a brief, fearsome struggle. Will fought with the savage energy of a mad wolf. He kicked and punched. He squirmed and twisted and bucked for all he was worth. But Gisborne was a grown man, far too heavy to be affected by a small, undernourished fifteen-year-old. The odds were against Will, as he quickly learned when Gisborne began slamming his knife hand against the ground. Crippled by pain, Will let go of his weapon and tried to head-butt Gisborne again, but the man was staying well out of range.

Blood from Gisborne’s lacerated face dripped onto Will’s shirt as he sat up, wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat, and dug his thumbs into the unprotected flesh.

Suddenly there was no air. Will tried to pull in a breath and found that he couldn’t, and a wild, hysterical panic overtook him. He clawed at the hands that were strangling him, his nails scrabbling uselessly against thick leather and wool. He then went for the man’s face, but it was half an inch too far from his trembling, outstretched fingers. He kicked his legs violently, gouging up furrows of dirt with his heels, yet his struggles were ineffectual with Gisborne’s bulk pinning him down.

This was it. Will was going to die today, under this apple tree, with the birds singing and the sun shining and this evil man on top of him, staring down into Will’s frightened eyes with a demented grin on his ugly, leering face.

 _This is no way to die_ , thought Will faintly. The edges of his vision were beginning to fade, Gisborne’s sadistic smile swaying and twisting as the lack of blood and oxygen brought Will closer and closer to death. _Find a way. Find_ something _. . . Not going to . . . die like this . . ._

As Will’s left hand dropped to the ground, his fingers brushed against the hilt of Gisborne’s sword. Could he use it? No. It was too cumbersome. He didn’t have the strength to lift it.

. . . It was getting difficult to think. The world was darkening, like a cloud had passed over the sun. He didn’t have long. A few seconds more, maybe . . .

“Why won’t you _die_?” Gisborne growled through gritted teeth, pressing his thumbs even harder into Will’s throat. “It’s not as if you’ve anything to live for anyway! Just . . . give . . . up!”

But Will was a fighter—from his earliest days to this one—indestructible, irrepressible, indomitable. And if this was the day his life was to end, then he was going to fight it to his very last heartbeat.

His hand fumbled across the ground, blindly searching for anything he could use; there was only grass, pebbles and dirt. Then, as the lights went out and world around him turned black, his fingers closed on something thin and firm—a dowel? An arrow?

The bolt. The bolt that had been shot from the crossbow.

 _Stab_ , came Will’s last thought. _Kill_.

He grasped the bolt and struck.

Gisborne’s howl of pain seemed like a whisper. The hands choking away Will’s life were suddenly gone, and when he dizzily pulled himself upright, it was as if everything on earth had gone suddenly silent. Guy of Gisborne was shrieking in soundless agony, clutching the bolt embedded in his side. He lurched slowly to and fro, as if moving underwater, and Will sucked in the sweetest breath he’d ever taken. Air filled his lungs. Blood rushed to his head. And as his senses returned, so did the sound and motion of the living world.

“You fucking whelp!” Gisborne bawled, dragging himself across the ground pathetically. “Spawn of a bitch! Wretched little worm, ahh! God damn you, I’ll tear you apart when I—”

But Will had already scrambled to his feet and was running away as fast as he could, his heart thumping madly, his waistcoat flapping, his boots pounding on the ground and sending shock waves of pain rippling up his sore, aching legs.

Behind him, Gisborne roared out a resounding promise that Will would remember for the rest of his life: “You’d better run far, you little maggot! Because if I see ever your cursed face in Nottingham again, _you will beg the Devil to save you from me_!”

The gravelly voice echoed across the wide, rolling field, and Will Scarrington, his hair flying and tears of terror and relief painting white trails down his dirty cheeks, kept running. He didn’t want to think how close he had come to dying today. He didn’t want to think about the marks and bruises that would soon be blossoming all over his body. He didn’t want to think about the touch, the shock and confusion and disgust it had inspired, or what fate might have awaited him at Nottingham Castle. No, he just wanted to run, put it out of his mind, leave it all behind him. As long as he kept running, he would be all right. He was alive. He would be all right. Everything would be all right.

So he kept running. And he never looked back.

* * *

The hooded traveler walked alone in the misty morning, silent but for his breaths of exertion. He was clearly a poor peasant, evidence by his tattered, violet-colored patchwork cloak and mismatched apparel, but he walked with his head held high and his shoulders back, perhaps belaying a noble heritage or simply youthful arrogance. His pace was strong and brisk, even despite the heavy burden he bore on his back: a small wooden chest, its contents jangling richly.

He followed the well-worn road across the dewy English field, each step bringing him closer to the hub of corruption he had not visited since he was fifteen years old. And there it was now, appearing out of the thinning fog like a dark apparition, the castle’s jagged silhouette crouching against the pale sky as if it were dragon returned home to roost.

Will Scarlet stopped in the middle of the road and gazed at Nottingham with a mixture of excitement and fear stirring in his belly. The bells of the cathedral began to chime in their deep, brassy voices—he was right on time. Shouldering the trunk’s thick leather straps once more, he resumed his journey onward.

Earlier that morning, before first light, Will had anxiously climbed into the saddle behind Azeem and ridden from the safety of Sherwood on the Moor’s hardy, swift-footed steed. Aside from one or two very brief experiences in riding when he was younger, and all of those being failed attempts at theft, this was the first time Will had ever truly ridden a horse. He didn’t think it was possible for a person to be simultaneously terrified and enthralled without losing his wits, but as he and Azeem had thundered across the dim countryside with the cool, damp wind snapping at their cloaks, Will had relished every wild, frightening, high-flying emotion that poured through his veins and into his beating heart.

One day, he thought, he wanted to ride like this, just by himself, across the open country. Ride until he reached one end of England, then turn around and ride to the other. There was no greater feeling, nothing so absolutely free and uplifting, as that of traveling on horseback.

At the first sign of sunrise, Azeem had stopped in a shallow dell and allowed Will to dismount and take up the locked chest that he now carried. If all went according to plan, he would meet Azeem at the rendezvous point in an hour’s time—sooner, if things went better than expected.

As Will approached the formidable castle walls, he seemed to shrink within his cloak like a turtle drawing itself into its shell. It had been three years since he had escaped the insidious clutches of Guy of Gisborne, and he hadn’t forgotten the fate promised to him should he come face-to-face with the villainous cretin. Though Will’s faith in God—and mankind in general—was capricious at best, he prayed for protection against hostile eyes on this most hazardous mission.

Beggars, cripples, thieves and other riffraff loitered against the outer walls, some stretching out their hands to the merchants and artisans filing into the town. Though many were experienced crooks and vagabonds, just as many were genuinely destitute: the young widow cradling her newborn; the elderly man shuddering under his thin rags; the orphaned children with dirty, thin faces. Will tried not to look at them as he passed by, knowing that it would affect his emotions too greatly. He had to maintain his temper if he hoped to succeed.

As predicted, the sentry standing at the gate stopped Will in his tracks.

“State your business,” he said gruffly.

Will licked his lips nervously. “I bring—I’m, I’m bringing tithes, sir. Ah, to the church.” He shrugged the chest he carried, causing its contents to clatter and jingle.

The guard cocked an eyebrow. “Bloody large tithe for one man.”

“Ah, w-well, you see, I’m the, I collect the tithes for my entire village, uh, _sir_ , and then I bring them to the church every month.”

“Really? I been at this job ‘alf a year and I never seen you ‘ere before.”

“Oh, well, I just, ah, that’s because I just took over, I inherited the task as tithe man and, ah—” Will inwardly cursed himself and his uncanny inability to tell a convincing lie. “—this is my first visit, sir, so I’m a little new to all this, you know, my, ah, my older brother’s the smart one, I don’t know why they chose me instead of him, but God works in mysterious ways—”

The sentry, realizing he was speaking to a complete idiot and by now looking quite bored, waved his hand to stop the inane babbling. “Right, right, on you go,” he muttered.

“Thank you, sir,” Will grinned. “Have a lovely day, sir!”

But the guard had already forgotten about him. Sagging with relief, Will entered the castle gate and found himself in the crowded, bustling square. Merchants were setting up their booths for the day, peddlers hawked their wares from wooden carts, and the blacksmiths and bakers and minstrels were filling the air with the sounds and smells of busy town life. It was something that never ceased to amaze Will, especially after living in the quiet, secluded forest of Sherwood for the past two years.

It wasn’t too difficult to find the cathedral, with its towering spires, pointed arches, and broad buttresses. The daily mass was just ending, people both rich and poor filing out of the doors and down the front steps, the latter imploring the former for handouts—with little luck. Will waited patiently to one side until the congregation had dispersed and the peasants, pockets as empty as before, shuffled off to scrounge up their daily bread.

Taking a deep breath, Will put his shoulder against one of the heavy wooden doors and pushed his way inside.

The quietness was the first thing he noticed, as if he’d entered another world. Then came the scents: incense, parchment, candles, wood; then the sense of vast, soaring space. He looked up and felt as tiny and insignificant as an ant. The sheer size of the cathedral was staggering—its ceiling alone must be at least a hundred feet high. The columns, the arches, the murals, the tapestries, the stained glass windows casting colored light upon the smooth, polished floor—Will had difficulty imagining all this had been built by human hands. There was something ineffably moving about standing in the midst of such beautiful, sacred architecture, and Will found himself unwittingly reaching up and pushing the hood back from his head.

“Whow,” he uttered softly, staring at the saints and angels glowing in shades of red and gold and blue.

“May I help you, brother?”

Robin’s face unexpectedly flashed through Will’s mind as he turned and beheld a young monk standing nearby. He was plain-faced and genuinely kind-looking—surely not one of Nottingham’s fallen angels.

“Yes, I, ah,” Will stumbled, “I wish to speak with the Bishop. I bring an important message for him.”

The young monk smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, but His Excellency has already retired for the—”

“It concerns the soul of one Robin of Locksley,” Will interrupted, “also known as Robin of the Hood. Please. This is urgent.”

The monk’s eyes widened at the mention of the notorious outlaw. “Oh my. Well, I, I suppose he would agree to a private audience in his chambers, considering the nature of—”

“Could you ask him to meet me here? My back is nearly broken from carrying all this gold.” Will emphatically dropped the heavy chest onto the floor, rattling its contents.

The monk put a hand to his astonished mouth. “Good gracious, I see. Yes, I’ll go fetch him at once!”

Watching the lad scurry away in his long robes, Will let out a tremulous sigh. His mission was now halfway complete, but its ultimate success would hinge on what would follow in the next ten minutes. If what Robin had told him about the Bishop of Hereford was correct—that he was the Sheriff’s lying, greedy accomplice and at least partially responsible for Thomas Locksley’s murder—then Will’s plan should work. In theory.

The wait was much shorter than Will had anticipated; the Bishop appeared from one side of the pulpit and walked briskly down the aisle, where Will was sitting patiently on the trunk. He rose to his feet as His Excellency approached, and saw that his jowly, well-fed face was flushed pink with heat. The heavyset man took a moment to compose himself and catch his breath before he addressed Will.

“My son,” he said, extending his hand for his ring to be kissed.

Will was unfamiliar with religious customs, having never attended mass nor received holy communion, and he resented being called “son” by this rich, pretentious man. He glared at the jewel-studded rings in front of him and then at the Bishop’s face, narrowing his eyes and making his feelings of discontent quite clear. The Bishop received them with equal clarity and quickly withdrew his hand.

“I was just informed that you bring a message regarding the outlaw Robin Hood,” he said, his covetous eyes darting down to the chest. “I pray that it is a good message.”

Will let out a resentful, sarcastic scoff. “Good for you and the rest of your Nottingham chums, maybe. As for the rest of us . . . well, that remains to be seen.”

“What is it, then? Speak, my boy, don’t be shy.”

A treacherous light glinted in the depths of Will’s green eyes. “Robin Hood wishes to surrender.”


End file.
